


Saucier

by alternatealto



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Banter, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, NC-17, Oral Sex, season 6 fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-12-06 17:30:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/738254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alternatealto/pseuds/alternatealto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>House concocts a little something special for Wilson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Saucier

 

 

_(Saucier:  A position in the classical brigade style kitchen . . . (which) prepares sauces, stews and hot hors doeurvres and sautes food to order. – Wikipedia)_

 

 

House has had a bad night. 

Wilson, wandering out to the kitchen late in the morning for coffee and whatever’s around for breakfast, doesn’t comment when he finds the other man stirring a pan of some carefully-crafted sauce or other.  Sometimes the leg just won’t let House rest, and Wilson’s learned that the best thing to do is not to hover.  Cooking is still a distraction from the pain, sometimes, and after a night when pain medication, massage, heat, and even sex weren’t enough to help, House had apparently decided to head back to the kitchen. 

He seems to be moving a little more easily. Wilson wonders if, for House, the successful creation of a complicated dish releases some kind of endorphin that helps the pain.   It wouldn’t surprise him.  He fumbles coffee from the canister and is trying to pour water into the coffee maker without dousing the counter and himself in the process when House comes up from behind to wrap his arms around him and nibble gently on the back of his neck. 

“Mmmmm . . .” Wilson murmurs, temporarily losing track of everything else – and then jumping when cold water cascades down the front of his pajamas and the front of him.  Dammit. 

“Bet that took the edge off the morning glory,” House comments, tightening his hold for a second and biting lightly before reluctantly letting go.  “Go change, idiot; I’ll take care of this.  You shouldn’t even be allowed to make coffee until after your first cup, anyway.” 

“If I followed that logic, I’d never wake up,” Wilson grumbles.  He heads back down the hall for some dry gym pants.  House watches him go, tasting the sauce at the same time.  He tilts his head, looks off into the distance for a moment, then reaches for the dried thyme in the spice rack and adds a little.  Another taste, and he nods slightly.  It isn’t quite there, but it’s closer. 

The coffee’s ready when Wilson, a little more awake after his impromptu ablutions, comes back into the kitchen.  House moves as if to offer him a cup, then sets it out of reach and grabs for him instead, pulling him into a kiss that quickly turns into a series of them, open-mouthed and messy and even better than coffee at waking Wilson up.  This is all still new enough to both of them that there’s an extra excitement to the kisses, familiar and unfamiliar elements mingling to make each one unique, something to savor.  By the time they stop, the coffee’s cooled enough to be drinkable, so Wilson grabs the cup, determined to at least _finish_ waking up in a more or less normal fashion.  House turns back to the stove, tasting his sauce with an abstracted air before adding a little more of the thyme and, after a moment’s thought, a dash of ground fennel seed.  The results seem to please him, because he smiles a little as he stirs. 

“Pasta sauce?”  Wilson wonders aloud, although it doesn’t quite smell like that. 

“Nope,” House says.  “It’s an experiment.  I’ll let you know how it works out.” 

Wilson, sliding a split bagel into the toaster, thinks to himself that dinner will probably end up being another of the incredible gourmet meals that House seems to create so easily when he’s in the mood.  Now that Wilson’s paying attention, the sauce in the pan smells more like something to go with beef, or maybe pork; it’s a bit on the dark and rich side for chicken or fish.  And by the time the meal’s ready, the sauce will have been incorporated into quenelles or poured around tournedos, or used in any of a dozen other creative ways.  He may not even recognize it when he meets it again, but it must be an important element of whatever dish House has planned, or he wouldn’t be giving it so much careful attention. 

Wilson grabs the toasted bagel and moves to the table where he already has the cream cheese out and ready.  The paper’s there, too.  House never seems to tire of teasing him about his addiction to the Sunday paper, but it’s been a part of his weekends for so long that he hasn’t been able to give it up yet.  Sunday morning coffee, bagels and newsprint are traditional:  he won’t surrender them until every last paper finally ceases print and goes online.  He shakes the paper open and automatically sets the comics section aside for House, as otherwise the man will fuss until he gets it.  House sees him and comes over to the table to collect it, stopping for a moment to bury his nose in Wilson’s hair, still rumpled from sleeping. 

“You’re affectionate this morning,” Wilson remarks, handing over the sports section along with the comics.  There’s an ongoing football pool in Oncology, and Wilson regularly cleans up by going with the teams House recommends.  House makes a noncommittal noise and turns back to the stove, lowering the heat on the sauce and cracking just a bit more black pepper into the pan.  Then he’s quiet for a few minutes, and Wilson glances over to see him leaning against the counter, lips pursed a little as he reads through the sports scores, putting small tick marks next to different teams with a pencil he’s produced from somewhere or other. Wilson smiles and turns back to the local section.  This is all so domestic that it’s hard to believe he’s living with House,  whom he once considered one of the least domesticated men on the planet.  Hell, he’s _married_ to House, a thought that still makes him just a little dizzy with mixed happiness and disbelief. 

House continues to rattle about in the kitchen for awhile before heading up the hall on some errand or other.  Wilson finishes the local news and turns to the Lifestyle section, automatically checking for ads for concerts or jazz performances that House might be interested in.  Nothing catches his eye, but then he’s not as into jazz as House is, so he folds the page back, leaves the part with the concert listings where they can be easily seen, and moves on to the Opinions section.  By now House has wandered back again and sits down across the table.  After a moment or two, Wilson feels House staring at him, and looks up. 

“Something wrong?” he asks, when he notices the intensity of House’s gaze.  House shakes his head, so Wilson goes back to the editorials.  Before long he looks up again, because House is still staring. 

“House,” he says, biting back a sigh, “What are you doing?” 

“I’m sitting here and letting you read,” House answers, in a tone that implies that this should be obvious even to someone of Wilson’s limited intelligence. 

“I . . . see.  Well, I’m grateful for that, of course, but is there any reason why you’re doing it in such an obvious way?” 

“Sure.” 

Wilson mentally rolls his eyes.  “And that reason would be . . . ?” 

“I want to make sure you know you owe me something for it.” 

“I owe you something for letting me read the paper in peace.” 

“Yep.” 

“I’m not even going to go into why that is so _very_ wrong.  House, being allowed to read the paper in peace is something I think I have a right to expect, not a privilege you can grant or withhold.” 

“Now you’re arguing with yourself.” 

“And how do you work _that_ out?” 

“You just said you were grateful to me for letting you read.  If that’s true, then obviously your being allowed to read the paper _is_ a privilege I can grant or withhold.” 

Wilson pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, trying to ward off the incipient headache.  “House.  Just, please, let me read the paper, okay?” 

“That’s what I _am_ doing.  We’ve agreed on that.” 

“Right. Good. Keep doing it, then.” 

“Sure.” 

Wilson reads five paragraphs of editorial without making head or tail of what the writer is trying to say, while House continues to regard him steadily from the other side of the table.  Finally, Wilson slams his hand down on the tabletop and glares at the other man. 

“What. Do. You. Want.” 

“Are you done reading?” 

“No, because I can _not_ read with you staring at me this way.  Just tell me what it is you want.” 

“If you can’t read, then you’re done reading, right?”

“House, that wouldn’t even pass for logic with a second-grader.  _What do you want?_ ” 

House gets up and comes around to Wilson’s side of the table.  Bending over, he takes Wilson’s right earlobe gently in his teeth and murmurs, “You.” 

“You . . . ahhhh . . . you want to have sex?” 

“As long as it’s sex with you,” House says, running his fingers lightly over the short hairs at the back of Wilson’s neck while he continues to nibble his earlobe. 

“You couldn’t just . . . mmmm . . . ask?” 

“I wanted to make sure you were done with the paper,” House replies in a wounded tone. 

“Well, you’ve managed that.  I’m definitely done with the paper.” 

“Good,” House tells him, and tugs him up from the chair to kiss him.  After several enjoyable minutes, he adds, “I’m asking.” 

“Asking . . .”  Wilson says through tingling lips, a little dazed and much more interested in getting back to the kissing. 

“For sex, idiot.  You said you wanted me to ask.” 

“Oh.” 

“And?” 

“I . . . um . . . yeah.  Sure.  Thought that was what we were doing.” 

“No, this is just kissing.  Honestly, Wilson, you’ve been married four times now, how can you not know the difference?” 

This time Wilson really does roll his eyes, and in lieu of starting another argument over semantics, he grabs House by the wrist and leads the way to their bedroom. 

He stops half-way into the room, perplexed by the apparatus that’s taken over the night table on House’s side of the bed.  “What the hell is that?” 

“It’s a _bain-marie,_ ” House replies calmly, pushing him on into the room.  “They don’t usually come this small, so I had to improvise a bit.”  He’s already got Wilson’s pajama top unbuttoned and off of him, and a second later he unties the string of the gym pants and stretches the waistband along it until they fall to the floor around Wilson’s feet. 

“What’s it doing _here?_ ”  

“The purpose of a _bain-marie_ ,” House replies in a scholarly tone, “is to keep liquids, particularly sauces, at the required temperature for the necessary period of time.”  He manages to get all this out while removing his own clothes remarkably quickly. 

“Look, if the sauce is so important that you have to keep an eye on it every minute, why don’t we just wait until it’s done?” 

“Because it _is_ done.” 

Realization sinks in.  “Wait . . .you . . . you’re going to . . . ?” 

“I definitely am,” House answers, pushing him onto the bed. 

“ _No_ . . . I’m not . . . I don’t . . . just . . . no!” 

“Relax, Wilson, I’m not going to let it burn you.  Actually it should feel pretty good; it’s only a hundred degrees, just barely above body temperature.”  He joins Wilson on the bed and while the other man is still gaping at the sauce dish in its water bath, he pushes him down and lies on top of him, kissing and biting at that spot on Wilson’s neck which usually renders him speechless almost immediately. 

It works this time, too, at least for a few minutes.  When it looks as if Wilson is getting ready to argue about it again, House switches to kissing his mouth instead of his neck, letting his tongue go deep while his hands find the sensitive places on Wilson’s shoulders and chest.  Before long Wilson is starting to move under him impatiently, the soft little uncontrollable twitches and shudders of building desire that are one of the biggest turn-ons for House in their lovemaking.  Good.  If he’s got Wilson to this point already, then the rest should be easy. 

“Here.”  He reaches out for the spoon he’s left in the sauce, holds Wilson’s head for a moment as he feeds it to him.  Wilson, too involved in his growing arousal to protest any longer, simply lets him do it.  His eyes widen a little. 

“Mmm.  House, that’s . . . really good.” 

“I know.  Better for me than for you, though,” and he sets the spoon aside and plunges his tongue into Wilson’s mouth to see whether he got the balance right.  

It’s even better than he expected, and he draws out the kiss to get every bit of the taste before pulling back,  giving him another spoonful of sauce, and attacking him once more.  The results of the experiment so far are exceeding his hopes.  

“House . . . House . . . god, what are you . . .”  Wilson is writhing harder underneath him and when House can get his eyes focused properly he sees the other man’s lips are bruised and swollen from the intensity of the kisses, his eyes rolling back into his head and his breath coming in hard gasps.  He smiles then and dribbles the warm, rich sauce carefully over Wilson’s throat and chest, kissing and licking it off enthusiastically, running his fingers through it to spread it lavishly over a nipple before sucking at it and  swirling his tongue to make sure he doesn’t miss any. 

“House . . . _wait_ . . . what is . . . why . . . _god_ that’s good . . .” 

“Why?” House pauses to smile at him.  “Because I love the way you taste.  The sauce is just to enhance the flavor.”  He leans back up and speaks softly into Wilson’s ear.  “I’m all about enhanced experiences, remember?”  Then he smiles again as Wilson closes his eyes and moans and surrenders. 

The sauce and House make their way down Wilson’s chest, across his stomach, into his navel.  House ends up spending quite a bit of time there, because the small cup seems to concentrate the essence of Wilson into the liquid, making a combination as close to perfect as he can imagine.

Wilson’s warm, humid skin and the way he’s moving and moaning as House sauces him and then licks and sucks and nibbles shows that he’s getting at least as much out of this as House is.  The way he’s starting to buck his hips a little shows that he wants even more. 

There’s plenty of sauce left, so . . .  

_Time for the acid test,_ House thinks, and the next spoonful of perfectly-warmed sauce gets poured right over the head of Wilson’s cock. 

Wilson’s eyes fly open and his hips thrust up involuntarily.  “ _Shit! . . ._ God, House, yes, _please . . ._ please, please, oh god, _please . . .”_   House adds another spoonful for good measure and starts in at the base, where it’s running down to coat Wilson’s balls. 

He nearly passes out at the taste. The combination of the sauce with Wilson’s own natural musk is overwhelming; he can’t stop licking greedily, pulling each small globe into his mouth to lap and suck at it with avid care.  Above him, Wilson’s cries are escalating into small, sharp screams; his hips pumping until House leans on them to stop the movement, ignoring the wail of frustration this elicits.  Sauce is still flowing down the shaft, and House licks his way up and around the delicious hardness, remembering to gentle things a bit when he reaches the head.  Here there’s a whole new combination of flavors, and he spares a moment to realize with a degree of pride that his creation really _does_ go with anything, as long as the “anything” is part of James Wilson. 

Wilson’s head is rolling from side to side, now; one hand is pounding on the mattress and the other gripping the sheets so tightly House thinks they might rip. Another spoonful of sauce, and House gets a solid grip on the base of his lover’s  erection and starts in all over again, this time taking as much of the other man into his mouth as he can possibly manage and sucking strongly.  Wilson pants and sobs, rock-hard and desperate for relief, as House sucks him off with slow relish, his fingers still firmly preventing the other man from coming, House’s weight pinning his hips so he can’t thrust, can’t move, can’t do anything but receive the pleasure House is giving him as he works his mouth up and down, over and over again.  

When a frantic note enters Wilson’s voice, House finally pauses to look at him, admiring the beautiful line of his throat as Wilson arches his head back into the pillow, the lovely sexual tension of the man’s entire body as he strains for the release he wants so badly.  He’s so gorgeous like this that House almost wishes he could freeze the moment and let it go on forever, the perfect picture of helpless erotic need.  Instead, he takes a mouthful of the sauce himself and moves up to share it with Wilson in a deep, deep kiss as he strokes him over and over until his lover screams into his mouth, screams and thrusts and spends and weeps with pleasure – House shoving his own erection roughly against Wilson’s hip and bringing himself off at almost the same instant. 

They lie limp afterwards, neither able to move, neither wanting to.  Eventually House drifts off to sleep, not noticing when the little candle under his improvised _bain-marie_ flickers and goes out.  The remaining sauce cools, but it doesn’t matter.  The recipe is safe in House’s memory, and he can make more any time he wants to. 

He’s pretty sure it’s going to become a favorite item on the menu for both of them.

 


End file.
